


A Partnership

by Bibulus



Category: Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibulus/pseuds/Bibulus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse starts to think of Lewis in a new way. Lewis is initially repulsed but finds, as always, that he can't help caring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to see if I could make Morse/Lewis work; not sure if I'm convinced, but here goes... No specific dramatic date, but after 'Promised Land' and 'Dead on Time'. Brief quotations from Houseman, Shakespeare and Donne.

He told himself it was normal to think about his sergeant as often as he did: in the evenings, at weekends, before falling asleep at night. He told himself, with reasoning as honest as it was dishonest, that in a life as desolate as his there was really no-one else he _could_ think about. Then, sometimes, he’d try to think about women: the women he’d known (the ones he could bear to remember); the pretty girl who’d started at the Turf; every opera singer he’d imagined making love to. But he couldn’t hold them in his mind. They were but shapes and silhouettes. Only Lewis had a voice, a smile, and a face he could see as clearly as if he had been standing before him. And then, when he did see Lewis, it was like coming home; like some vital part had been restored to him. Yet, for the first few moments, he could not quite meet Lewis’ eyes, lest that bright detective should see his secrets inscribed on his face—secrets he was surprised and more than a little dismayed to find he had. Then, often as not, he would snap at his long-suffering sergeant, or dispatch him to the canteen for coffee he claimed to have asked for half an hour earlier, and the remorse that followed as inevitably as his morning headache only fired his thoughts.

For all that, Morse did not notice any effect on his work. It was only when, for the third day running, he found himself staring at the Times crossword as though his brain had been emptied of everything he once knew that Morse admitted he was becoming a little preoccupied. And Lewis, of course, bore the brunt of his frustration: “How am I supposed to think with you hovering over me?”

Lewis, not unused to Morse’s outbursts, merely raised an eyebrow, though on this occasion the reproach struck him as particularly uncalled for, since he’d just taken a long weekend with the wife and kids and Morse hadn’t seen him since Thursday—or so he thought. But Morse _had_ seen him, for while he and his family were enjoying the Brighton sun, Lewis had been on Morse’s mind, all the more for not being before his eyes.

“Royston decided to plead,” said Lewis, unfazed.

“Yes.” At last Morse’s eyes came into focus and he saw Lewis: blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie slightly askew; perhaps a little tanned from three days in the sun. Morse’s features softened. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“Yeah I did, thanks.”

“Good.”

Lewis shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Something the matter, sir?”

“I’m not sure.”

Morse was only three feet away across a desk, but he sounded distant; distracted. Lewis wondered if something particularly gory had come up over the weekend. Morse had never been comfortable with the graphic side of the CID; if he hadn’t been so brilliant at what he did, Lewis might have said he was in the wrong line of work. “Sir?” he prompted gently.

Morse pushed away his newspaper. “Nothing—only I don’t seem to be able to do crosswords any more.”

“Oh.” Lewis did not know what to make of that. Perhaps Morse thought it was a symptom of something—Alzheimers, or a brain tumour, maybe—though he hadn’t picked the Chief Inspector for a hypochondriac. “Don’t worry sir, I can never make heads or tails of them.”

“No,” said Morse, still somehow distant. He was staring, though, in a funny way, and Lewis thought he must have spilled something on his trousers. In fact, with pleasure spoiled by the consciousness of shame, Morse was wondering what Sergeant Lewis looked like in his swimsuit. ****

*

“I want you to do something for me,” said Strange, when he called Lewis to his office a few days later. “Keep an eye on Morse. This is an important case. You’re the two to crack it, if he can behave himself, keep off the booze. He’s in one of his sloughs, that’s clear enough, and maybe this case is what he needs to pull him through—but I don’t want him dragging the rest of us down with him. You’ll keep him out of trouble, won’t you Lewis?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Lewis wasn’t sure how much he could do. He could hardly supervise Morse day and night, and even when they were together he found it very difficult to say no to Morse. The Chief Inspector had a kind of power over Lewis that went beyond his rank. Strange’s ultimatum wouldn’t change that.

“Good man,” said Strange. “Well, get back to it. We want results on this one! I know the Chief Constable’s very interested.”

Lewis nodded. “But—is he all right, sir?”

“The Chief Constable?”

Lewis almost smiled. “Morse. Is he not well, do you know?”

“Depends what he got up to last night!” Strange snorted.

That made Lewis prickle—he was too loyal. But at least he knew Morse wasn’t ill. It probably was, as Strange said, just one of his sloughs.

*

Somehow it was only a matter of hours before Lewis found himself taking Morse to the pub. But in truth it seemed to do him a world of good. As they sat out under the apple trees, with a couple of pints and the case file spread over the picnic table, Morse settled into something like good humour. Whatever had been bugging him, Lewis hoped it was forgotten now.

Morse studied a petrol receipt in Dutch. “So Palmer was definitely in Rotterdam when Walker was murdered.”

“Yes sir—which leaves Heywood.”

Morse looked up. “What about his alibi?”

“Loughton, the plant operator. Looks solid enough—only, I don’t see why he didn’t mention that Palmer is his uncle.”

“His uncle?”

Lewis nodded. “There was an accident at the plant a couple of months ago—Loughton mentioned it when I asked about his arm. I spoke to the Radcliffe today, and according to their records he was brought in by his uncle, Palmer. I’ve checked it out with the registry office,” Lewis added, before Morse could ask. “His mother, Mrs Green, remarried a few years ago—that’s why we didn’t pick up on the name. But Loughton’s mother is Palmer’s sister.”

“Really. Not the sort of thing one just _forgets_ to mention, is it Lewis?”

“No sir. So he was a nephew of one of the directors, as well as an employee—that might be enough to get him to cover up for Heywood.”

Morse was nodding. “And not just that. Well done, Lewis. No, Loughton has one very good reason to lie: when old Sir Ronald dies, _Loughton_ stands to inherit a major share in the company. And they thought they’d swept that little fact under the carpet!” Lewis saw Morse’s eyes brighten as the pieces fell into place. “Get hold of the company constitution. Winthrop’s an old firm. I think you’ll find control passes through the male line. Loughton’s not protecting his boss, he’s protecting his inheritance.”

Lewis was almost persuaded. “But if that’s it, why cover up for Heywood? We know there was no love lost between them. Why not tell the truth, and let Heywood go down? Get him out of the way altogether?”

“That’s something Loughton will have to tell us. Unless— _unless_ they’re in it together. Thank you, Lewis! Yes, with Walker off the board they both stood to gain. We knew from the start that he was the one blocking the merger, so we’ve been looking at the other directors. But we should have been looking at the directors-apparent. What’s Loughton’s alibi?”

“I don’t know, sir. Heywood I guess.”

“And only each other’s word for it. I want them both brought in for questioning—separately. And Palmer. I’ll bet he’s in this too.”

“Now, sir?”

Morse shook his head. “Tomorrow will do. If they’ve no reason to think we’re onto them, we’ve no reason to rush. And it will give Forensic a chance to come up with a blood match.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Lewis. “We can pick them up at Winthrop in the morning.”

Morse leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “Besides which, it would be criminal to waste an afternoon like this.” He looked over and was pleased to see that Lewis was not in any hurry, either.

Lewis smiled. He was excited at the prospect of an arrest after a hard week’s work, but sometimes the synergy of their minds was more stimulating than the solution itself. He was particularly proud that his decision to follow up Loughton’s accident, which had no obvious bearing on the case, had proved to be important; that Morse knew it was important. Loughton had said he hated Heywood—maybe he did—so they’d thought he had no reason to lie for his boss, but now they had a motive, if Morse was right, and he usually was. But he couldn’t have got there alone. ‘Well done, Lewis’— those words meant the world to him. He raised his glass. “You might try one of your crosswords now, sir.”

“Good idea, Robbie. But I didn’t buy the paper.”

“That bad, eh?” Lewis was only half aware of his own words. Morse had called him Robbie. He hardly ever did that, and it always meant something. Lewis wondered if maybe now he’d find out what had been on Morse’s mind—something had been eating at him all week, and he was sure it wasn’t just the murder at Winthrop Manufacturing. But Morse only suggested they try a couple of pints of the new cask ale, and Lewis found himself agreeing. On an evening like this, he didn’t mind shouting another round, or waiting a little longer till he was right to drive. For all Strange’s concern, Morse was in as good a mood as Lewis could remember, and by the end of the second pint he was pretty sure what ‘Robbie’ meant: it meant real friendship, more important to them both than Lewis had realised. For Morse, however, it meant something more.

It was Lewis who suggested another round, and Morse for once handed him a ten pound note. Lewis went to the bar, and came back with two glasses—a pint for Morse and an orange juice for himself. He sat down, handed Morse his change, and said something about the long view out over Oxford’s spires.

Morse followed his gaze. “We’ll hear evensong soon,” he said quietly. Then he reached out and put his hand over Lewis’.

It could not have been the first time Morse had touched his hand—just before, for instance, when he’d given him his change—and there’d been the odd touch on the shoulder or pat on the back; Lewis liked that. But this was different. The first thing he noticed was the softness of Morse’s palm. Then he looked down and saw the dark hairs at the base of the thumb which had begun to trace small circles on his own. Lewis froze. Morse felt the fine tendons stiffen in the back of his hand, and pulled away just as Lewis did.

“I’d better be going,” Lewis stammered.

“Yes.” Morse did not meet his eyes.

Lewis walked to his car. He slid in behind the wheel and sat staring at the controls as he tried to make sense of what had happened. He was fairly sure Morse had just made a pass at him. But, having thought it, he seemed unable to think _about_ it. His mind was a fog. Mechanically, he started the engine and pulled out of the car park. He’d driven most of the way into Oxford before he realised he’d stranded Morse at the pub. Well, Morse could get a cab, he told himself. Or a bus. It might do him good to climb down off his pedestal and catch a public bus. But the bitter thought stung Lewis as much as it would its intended target. He thought of Morse, alone under that apple tree, consumed by shame, probably, and set on drinking till he could no longer remember why. And all for what? He’d touched his hand.

Lewis drove the whole way round the ring road while he considered what to do, and was probably lucky not to be pulled over. He could go back to the pub—he was sure Morse would still be there—but he was too proud for that. Yet the thought of going home was just as bad. There was too much on his mind, and he could hardly talk to Val about it. So in the end, without really knowing why he was doing it, he drove to Morse’s house and parked round the corner in the side lane. At least he’d know Morse got home safe, he told himself, whenever that might be. Keep an eye on Morse, wasn’t that what Strange asked him to do? He’d done it before, after all, on the couple of occasions when he’d worried Morse might actually go and top himself. Lewis hoped he didn’t have to worry about that. He remembered what Morse had said in Australia; gamblers don’t kill themselves, that was what it came down to. But was Morse a gambler? He certainly took his chances with some of the wild leaps he made in their investigations—and any number of bungling romances. Was that a comfort, Lewis had wondered, the last time he found himself camped outside Morse’s house—that Morse would go on getting hurt, but never hurt himself? Then again, Mike Harding was a gambler, and he’d blown his own brains out.

Lewis studied the hand that Morse had touched. He imagined he could still feel the warmth of the other man’s palm. That touch had been a gamble, too. Lewis felt a twinge of regret. He didn’t want to hurt Morse; he went out of his way to protect the sad old bastard. But if Morse really wanted that—wanted _him_ —there was nothing Lewis could do to spare him rejection.

Lewis beat his head against the seat. “Damn it, sir, why’d you have to spoil everything?”

*

Worn out with thinking and not thinking, Lewis slipped into an unrestful sleep. He was woken about 11 o’clock by the sound of a cab pulling into the drive. Soon after he saw the light come on in Morse’s sitting room. Lewis decided he would wait till he saw it go out again, which would mean that Morse had gone to bed. Then he’d go home, and the next morning—well, he supposed he’d just pretend that nothing had happened. An hour later, however, the light was still on, and if he stuck his head out the car window he could hear music—Wagner, he thought it was. Lewis was learning, slowly.

He waited another hour, but he could still see the glow of the sitting room light on Morse’s climbing rose. He must have fallen asleep on the couch, or passed out, though how anyone could sleep through Wagner, Lewis could not imagine.

Or maybe he couldn’t sleep. Maybe Morse was still awake, haunted like Lewis by the action of an instant. But what had really happened to keep two men who dealt every day with murder and crime and wrecked lives awake into the small hours of the night? Lewis wondered then if he had overreacted, let his imagination run wild. After all, Morse had never shown the slightest interest in men. Maybe he’d got it wrong, somehow.

One o’clock came and went before Lewis made up his mind. He got out of the car, stretched his stiff neck, and picked his way through the bushes into Morse’s garden. He would just look through the window, he told himself, to make sure Morse was all right. He had to know; he’d never sleep if he didn’t. It was just a shame he didn’t see the watering can, which clattered over the patio accompanied by a string of curses which he was surprised didn’t wake the neighbours—only Morse, who appeared at the window to see what the commotion was. It was clear he had not been in bed.

“ _Lewis_?”

Lewis could only shrug. What _was_ he doing prowling round Morse’s garden in the middle of the night? That was probably just as strange as whatever Morse had done. Lewis supposed he would have to explain himself somehow, so he made his way to the front door—careful, this time, to watch his step.

He found Morse standing in the open doorway. “Well, sergeant?” For an instant Lewis thought he was about to get a real bawling out, but Morse looked almost amused—and he was doing a bad job of hiding it. “Well?”

“Just… checking in on you, sir.”

Morse folded his arms. “What makes you think I need checking?”

It occurred to Lewis then that Morse seemed reasonably sober—though, with Morse, that didn’t necessarily mean much. “The Chief Super asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“Did he? Well, much as I appreciate your assiduity, Lewis, in all facets of your work, I do think this rather exceeds the call of duty.”

“But not friendship, sir.”

That caught Morse off-guard. “Well, you’d better come in, then,” he said, still trying to sound annoyed, “ _not_ that any of this is necessary.”

Lewis followed Morse into the sitting room, where Brangäne called her mournful warnings. Morse turned her down to a whisper and gestured for Lewis to sit.

“Thanks.”

Lewis took one end of the couch and immediately thought about leaving again. He didn’t know what to say, since he hadn’t really expected to find Morse either lucid or upright. Instead he looked around the room, anywhere but at Morse. He was surprised to see the remains of a toasted sandwich on the table; sometimes he wondered whether Morse ever ate at all.

Morse followed his gaze. “Care for some supper?”

“No,” Lewis began, before he realised how hungry he was. “Actually, that’d be nice—thank you sir.”

Morse went to the kitchen, giving Lewis a few minutes to collect his thoughts. “I owe you an apology,” he said when Morse returned.

Morse looked genuinely surprised. “What for?”

“For stranding you earlier.”

“Oh.” Morse shrugged. “I got a cab.” He sat down next to Lewis—not too close—and handed him a plate.

“Thanks.”

For a while they ate in silence. Lewis was surprised to find a kind of calm come over him—nothing like a cheese toasty, he supposed.

“I owe _you_ an apology,” Morse said at last.

Lewis blinked. “Why?”

 _Because I liked you better than suits a man to say._ “You know why—or, if you don’t, you’re not the detective I thought you were.” __

So, Morse _had_ made a pass at him. But Lewis had known that all along and it didn’t shock him now. He did not feel anger or disgust. It was just another of Morse’s foibles, he supposed, like his rudeness and his temper and his occasional ‘breakfast pint’. Lewis could handle that. More than anything he felt sorry for him—and perhaps, in some small way, flattered. “I hope I’m that, sir,” he said. In the car, Lewis had considered the possibility of requesting a transfer. He could not think of it now. What Morse had done that afternoon was less important than the partnership—the friendship—they’d built over the last few years. He tried changing the subject. “Is that Wagner?”

Morse inclined his head. “ _Tristan und Isolde_.”

“Not bad.”

Some minutes passed. Lewis finished his toast, conscious of the sound of his own chewing. Morse was not eating. Lewis set his plate on the table, and busied himself picking the crumbs from his knee.

Morse watched him. “You’re a good policeman, Robbie, and a good friend.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I hope you won’t mind if I say you’re the most important person in my life. I don’t expect you to feel the same way—I don’t _expect_ anything. But I hope we will continue to work together—despite my earlier lapse in judgement.”

Lewis smiled to himself, thinking that, for once, he’d got there before Morse. “So do I, sir.”

Soon the record ended. Lewis found himself yawning.

“Time you went home,” said Morse.

“Yeah, better. Pick up our new chief suspect in the morning. Unless—” he nodded at the turntable, “—was that the end?”

“That was the end of Act Two, Lewis.”

“Might as well hear the rest, then.”

Morse smiled. He appreciated the gesture, but Lewis didn’t know what he was getting himself in for. “Not tonight.” He got up to show Lewis to the door. “But I’ll find the cassette. We can play it in the car tomorrow.”

‘We’. There was something wonderful about that word.

*

The Winthrop case moved quickly. Loughton ratted on Heywood the moment he knew Morse was onto him, and Heywood returned the favour. The only problem was that the blood sample taken at the scene didn’t match either of them—or Palmer, or his sister, or anyone else they could think of—and for a while Morse was convinced there was another body at the bottom of Winthrop’s galvanising vats. But a search turned up nothing. It took another two days to follow the trail back to Heywood’s secretary, Miss Philips, who had reported Walker’s death in the first place—and, it turned out, had been having an affair with Heywood.

With so much going on, neither Morse nor Lewis had much of a chance to dwell on what had happened between them, and when Morse suggested a celebratory pint, Lewis did not even think to worry that there might be a repeat performance. There was only one moment that made him start.

“I should have guessed,” Lewis was saying, as they sat together in the Turf. “The boss is always sleeping with his secretary.”

“Especially when she looks like Rita Philips.” Morse leaned his chin on his hand. “Now why don’t _I_ have a secretary?”

When he looked up, he saw Lewis’ eyes had gone round.

“ _Lewis!_ ” He laughed. “Your spelling’s not good enough anyway.”

*

The next big challenge to come Morse’s way was a suspicious death at Kiddlington—or rather Sarah Farmer, the dead man’s next door neighbour, who taught Italian and French at the local school and played the viola in her spare hours. Morse couldn’t have fallen faster if he’d been pushed off a cliff. Lewis saw all the usual signs; he was just glad that, this time, Morse wasn’t actually chasing the chief suspect. But Sarah Farmer was something almost as dangerous—an attractive, intelligent woman who felt nothing for Morse but was kind enough to let him believe, for a time, that she did.

‘Cruel to be kind,’ they said; Lewis wished Miss Farmer had been a little more cruel. Morse took it very hard when their third date ended with a kiss on the cheek and a permanent goodbye. Lewis didn’t have to ask what had happened when Morse came in late the next morning black around the eyes, with breath that left no doubt of how he’d spent the small hours of the night. Lewis was actually angry—with Miss Farmer, and with himself, again, for letting Morse get hurt. He’d been a little bit jealous too, he supposed. He’d grown sick of hearing about Miss Farmer while Morse left him with the donkey work, and just occasionally he’d wondered if Morse still thought of him at all. ****

Morse picked up the first file he found on his desk and made a pretence of reading it. Lewis hovered, not sure whether to go or stay. He didn’t dare say ‘good morning’.

Eventually Morse met his eyes. “Do you know how long it’s been since I last had sex?” he said bitterly.

“No sir.” Lewis wondered where this was going. “How long has it been?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked you.”

“How the hell would I know?” Lewis spluttered. But Morse’s only reply was a grunt. Clearly he wanted to be unpleasant; he didn’t care if he got answers. Lewis supposed that was his way of dealing with the pain. He sighed and tried to say something reassuring. “Well, sometimes I feel a bit that way myself, sir.”

“You? You’re married.”

“Well, you know, two kids and a mortgage—”

“I _don’t_ know.”

Lewis wondered how to respond to that, and gave up. “I suppose not. I’ll see you later, sir.”

*

Lewis ventured back in the afternoon with the last of the paperwork from the Kiddlington case. He found Morse with the blind down and his head bowed to the desk. At first Lewis thought he was asleep, and was glad of it, until he heard the muttered words “—nothing, I am nothing.”

Lewis was going to creep out again, but he couldn’t leave Morse like that. Morse was not grieving over Sarah Farmer, he knew, but a lifetime of disappointments. Lewis went to his side and put an arm around his shoulders. Morse did not start; instead, slowly, he turned his face up to Lewis’. Tears oozed from his bloodshot eyes. The caustic veneer was gone completely, and he looked more vulnerable than Lewis could have imagined. Lewis dropped to one knee and gathered him into his arms. He held him tightly and for a while Morse wept unashamedly on his sergeant’s shoulder.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Lewis found himself saying, as he might have comforted a child. “It’s all right sir.”

“It is a tale told by an _idiot_ ,” Morse groaned.

“It’s all right now, it’s all right.” Lewis rubbed Morse’s shoulders in slow circles. For a while he was a deadweight, depending entirely on Lewis. Then one hand reached feebly around Lewis’ back. Lewis held him closer, still soothing, stroking, giving Morse the human comfort he so desperately needed, conscious of the fact that there was no-one else in the world who would.

Morse’s hand drifted over Lewis’ shoulders, reaching at last to the nape of his neck. His fingers twined in Lewis’ short hair, combing it gently, loosening it from the gel that had tamed it that morning. Lewis’ pulse quickened at the touch, but he did not pull away. Then he realised the moist warmth on his neck was not Morse’s tears but his lips, surprisingly soft lips, caressing the skin beneath his ear.

Lewis swallowed hard. Beyond that, he was paralysed. He knew he’d shut the door, but he was acutely aware that they were in Morse’s office, in a busy police station, where a knock on the door could come at any moment—and Strange didn’t always bother to knock. Oddly, that was what alarmed Lewis the most, not the fact that he and Morse were in each other’s arms.

“Sir…”

Morse’s breath came hot on his neck and long lashes swept his cheek. The ticklish touch sent a thrill down Lewis’ spine. Then Morse’s lips met his, nuzzling, nudging, parting softly, until Lewis found himself responding. Morse had clearly not taken the trouble to shave that morning, and his bristly skin reminded Lewis of Christmas kisses from his grandfather, right down to the whiff of Glenfiddich. But there the resemblance ended, and later, when his heart had stopped pounding and he had recovered a little from the initial shock, Lewis would acknowledge to himself that Morse was a good kisser. For now, however, he simply curled his arms around Morse’s neck, tugging the snowy head closer as Morse, encouraged, ventured his tongue between Lewis’ lips.

The kiss silenced Lewis for what felt like minutes together, though it could only have been moments, and afterwards it was a little while before he recovered his speech. “We can’t do this, sir—not here.”

His eyes were closed; he could not see Morse’s face or know how his heart pounded when he heard those last two words. But then Morse came to his senses, and pulled out of the embrace. “No,” he said, his voice unsteady.

Lewis was actually trembling. All his investigative powers could not explain what had happened. He looked up at the man he had been kissing, and in a way it was a relief to see that it was only Morse, the same Chief Inspector Morse he saw almost every day, with his familiar white hair and familiar blue eyes—but it was _Morse!_ Still more surprising was the stirring in his groin. In a cooler moment Lewis might have dismissed it as an animal instinct, something he could not control—he’d seen a programme on the telly once about Pavlov’s dogs. For now, though, he could only feel it for what it was: a strange urge to go to bed with Morse, whatever that might involve.

Morse felt the same way, and had for some time, so the impulse did not confound him as it confounded Lewis. What made his heart race was the idea that Lewis might want him too. But, no matter what they felt, they could not remain on the floor of his office. He got up, and helped Lewis to his feet as well.

“Sergeant—”

“Sir?”

Morse hastily wiped his face on his sleeve. “I believe you had some papers for me.”

“Uh, yes sir.” Moving as if through treacle, Lewis found the folder and handed it across.

Morse flipped through and signed on the dotted line. As he passed it back, he allowed his eyes to linger on his rumpled sergeant—his hair in disarray and his shirt damp with tears. He wasn’t sure how old Lewis was, but at that moment he looked like a boy. Morse smiled. “You’ll want to get yourself cleaned up before you take that round to Strange.”

“I will.”

“And… Lewis?”

He paused at the door.

“Thank you,” Morse said softly.

“No trouble, sir.” Then Lewis was gone, leaving Morse to wonder exactly what he meant by those words.

*

They both recovered well enough to part that afternoon with some semblance of normality. But Morse knew that trying to ignore what had passed between them would be like ignoring a ticking bomb—it would explode eventually, though how or when he could not say. He had no idea how Lewis would cope with the events of that afternoon; he hardly knew how he felt himself. Morse just hoped it would not come to what he feared the most: a letter on his desk the next morning asking for a transfer.

Music, paper, single malt—Morse went through all the motions of a normal evening, except that he didn’t normally shave and wash his hair before dinner unless he was going out. He couldn’t shake the sense that he was waiting. Downstairs in his dressing gown, still damp from the bath, he played the most beautiful music of Puccini, Schubert, and Richard Strauss. He wanted to be moved, to rise and fall on the tide of passions so exquisitely wrought, but music did not move him, as it usually would, for that day he had known anguish and ecstasy, and could not be content with the counterfeit.

 _Lewis, Lewis, what have you done to me?_ Morse wondered as he lay on the sofa. Even if he’d fancied men—and he didn’t, generally—he wouldn’t have thought Lewis was his type. He was a good, honest, hard-working, lager-drinking philistine, and though Morse had gone some way towards remedying the last two, sometimes he was amazed they worked together as well as they did. But Lewis was clever, more so than Morse liked to admit, and he was kind—Lewis actually cared for him, and that was as bewitching as great beauty or a cultivated mind. _Lewis_ … Morse wrapped his arms around himself. Perhaps the time he’d got it so wrong was the one time he’d got it right.

About ten o’clock came the knock on the door he had half expected but hardly dared to hope for. It was Lewis, of course—but his haggard expression wiped the smile from Morse’s face.

“Horrible row with Val,” Lewis announced, before Morse had a chance to ask. “Got booked on the way here.”

“I’m flattered you went to so much trouble,” Morse quipped. It almost worked; the heavy look in Lewis’ eyes lifted for an instant. Then he staggered inside and let himself sag into the sofa.

Morse sat beside him. He wanted to take his hand, but fear and guilt constrained him; it was no coincidence, he was sure, that Lewis and his wife had quarrelled _that_ night. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered instead. He suspected Lewis had had a couple already.

Lewis blinked. “No, I want to think.”

“I find a drink helps me think.”

“I know.” At another time Lewis might have rolled his eyes. Instead he turned and looked straight at Morse. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, Robbie?”

“That I… matter to you. That I’m important to you.”

“Yes,” Morse replied calmly, though he felt anything but calm. “You are immensely important to me.”

“I want to be important to you,” Lewis went on, as though he hadn’t heard. “I want you to be proud of me, and I want us to be a team, in our work, and—”

That ‘and’ was too much for Morse. He took Lewis’ hands in his. “And?”

“And… as us.”

Morse could not help smiling. “Is that another of your euphemisms, Lewis?”

“What?”

“Shh.” Morse raised a finger and pressed it to Lewis’ lips—wonderfully soft, and fuller than Morse had ever noticed before that afternoon. Lewis was quiet, but Morse could see his chest heave and his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat—with fear or desire he could not say; did not dare to guess. He let his hand drop, but held Lewis’ eyes.

“Do you… want me, sir?” Lewis said at last. His nose wrinkled as he said it, as if his own words sounded absurd.

Morse decided at that moment that Lewis was, in fact, very beautiful. “You know that I do,” he said. He squeezed the hand he still held. “I wish I could help it, Robbie, but I can’t—and I can’t be dishonest with you.”

“I don’t want you to be dishonest.”

“Then what? What _do_ you want?”

Morse could see the struggle behind Lewis’ eyes. At last he broke free of whatever thoughts had been tormenting him. “Man, do I have to say it?” And he plunged forward, claiming Morse’s lips.

The kiss—if that was the word—took Morse’s breath away, literally. But even through the fog of building arousal, he could not but worry about his sergeant. He did not know what had brought him to his house, to his arms—he’d seen Lewis’ face that evening by the Cherwell, and he never wanted to see Lewis look that way again. But his self-control went only so far. He soon succumbed to the delicious assault, drawing Lewis closer still and running both hands through his soft brown hair. Somehow it felt more right than anything he could remember, without any of the awkward self-consciousness that accompanied other kisses, wondering who the woman in his arms really was and what she thought of him. There was a comfortable familiarity between him and Lewis that Morse had seldom known in his other more fleeting relationships—and if two men spent the better part of their lives together, was it so strange that they should do this? Perhaps Lewis felt the same way, for soon the frenzied crush of lips became a gentler exploration.

They threw the cushions off the sofa and lay down as best they could, a tangle of elbows and knees. Morse set to work on Lewis’ shirt; Lewis pulled open his dressing gown and, to Morse’s frank amazement, was undeterred by what he found. Now that he’d settled on his course, Lewis pursued it with a single-mindedness to rival Morse on one of his hunches. Lewis kissed him and lay on top of him, squirming as Morse continued to undress him, so their erections rubbed maddeningly through the fabric of Lewis’ trousers—trousers that by then felt like fetters. At last he was free of them, and kicked them aside with more urgency than he’d known since he was a teenager. Both naked now, unpractised hands roamed everywhere, learning from every ragged breath and groan new ways to give pleasure. _Before, behind, between, above, below._ For Morse these clumsy efforts were heaven itself. The only cloud that hung over his unhoped-for bliss was the thought that it was pity, and not passion, that put Lewis in his arms. But when did pity moan like that? When did pity harden, and beg for release at another man’s hands? But the time for thought was past, and Morse gave himself up to what he felt, tasted, smelled—to Lewis, wonderful Lewis.

Lewis fetched up with his head on Morse’s chest and one leg lopped over his thigh. They were both naked and a little sticky. He’d definitely pulled a muscle or two, and put a foot through the upholstery—but Morse had continued torturing his nipple, and declared that he didn’t care. Of the rest, Lewis remembered snatches: the strange heat of another man thrusting into his hands; Morse reaching between their close-pressed bodies to do something to his balls like he’d never felt before; and the strangely benevolent look on his Chief Inspector’s face just before Lewis had come hard between his fingers and up over his belly. After all that, he must have dozed off for a bit. Now Lewis opened his eyes. Morse’s chest hair was tickling his nose. Up close the white hair looked like glass fibres; he sort of liked the way it rubbed against his own.

Morse felt him stir, and looked down at his sergeant. He loved the sight of Lewis tousled and sweaty, at peace in his arms. All the strain had gone from his face, and the contentment that had taken its place made him look ten years younger. Morse told himself that, if they never saw each other again, he’d treasure that vision till he died.

Lewis looked up. Their eyes met, and Morse held his breath, waiting for reality to bite. Life had taught him to look for disappointment. But Lewis simply raised his eyebrows as he had a thousand times and said, “Does that count as having sex?”

Morse laughed aloud. “Better than that, Robbie.” He pushed the hair out of Lewis’ eyes and gazed into their blue depths. He could have lain like that forever, but another question formed on Lewis’ lips. “What is it?” Morse said softly. Perhaps this was the rub; perhaps now Lewis would tell him it was charity—or worse, some perverted sense of duty—that had made him do what he had done.

“Nothing,” Lewis said, “only, I can’t feel me arm.”

“Oh, Lewis…” Grinning stupidly, Morse sat up enough for Lewis to reclaim his limbs, then gathered him into his arms. He did not know how long his happiness would last—there were so many things to talk about—but he was happy now, and his lover was his dear friend. A wave of delight rushed over him. This was the stuff of music, of poetry; the radix of all art. He opened his mouth to speak—and thought better of it.

“Sir?” Lewis waited.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “No, nothing. Happy men make poor poets, Robbie.”


End file.
